


Exposure Therapy

by lumiere42



Series: Retrograde [5]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: A/U, Acrophobia, Agoraphobia, F/M, Maeve ain't precisely NT either, Reid is autistic, just a hint of sexual content, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 22:32:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumiere42/pseuds/lumiere42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Facing your fears can require inventive approaches. A/U for events after "Zugzwang"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exposure Therapy

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own Criminal Minds or anything else copyrighted herein. Homage, no $$$ made

May 18:

She hates waiting outside alone for very long. There's nothing to be afraid of, she knows that, but it still makes her feel too exposed. Especially on a foggy morning like this, where sounds are muffled in the damp air and everything more than a block away is fuzzed into insubstantial gray shapes. Being huddled in her favorite jacket helps a little. She tries putting the hood up, then pulls it down again when she realizes it just blocks out more of her surroundings.

She checks her watch. It's been fifteen minutes, time she can count in her log as therapy time because it's exposure to the outdoors and the more of that the better -

Headlights, approaching in the fog, and a familiar-sounding engine. She smoothes her condensation-damp hair back before Spencer's car pulls up.

It's blessedly dry inside, classical music issuing softly from the radio. Spencer's wrapped in a long black coat she's never seen before. He looks tired, and apparently forgot to comb his hair before going out, but his shy little smile is beautiful.

"Hi."

"Hi." She's about to make some snarky observation about the unseasonable weather, but she starts yawning so widely she can't form the words.

He points: a styrofoam cup in the cup holder and a brown paper bag on the passenger-side dashboard, both bearing the logo of the neighborhood coffee shop. She busies herself with them as he pulls out and drives down the misty side streets. Black coffee and sesame-seed bagels and one of those little bacon-and-egg sandwiches she likes.

They head up onto the freeway, going north. The fog grays out most of the scenery.

"Thanks for breakfast," she says.

"No problem. How long were you waiting?"

"About fifteen minutes."

"Scary?"

"Not especially." The coffee and food are making her feel steadily more awake. "It's pretty low-traffic this early, though."

"It still counts as practice." He's concentrating on the road, looking straight ahead through the steady _whup-whup_ of the wipers. She decides it's probably better to just let him do that till the fog thins more or till they get wherever they're going.

She watches condensation droplets stream across the passenger-side window, and mentally reviews the progress of the last few weeks. She's decided the two most urgent problems are the heights thing and the creeping nervousness she feels out in public, especially around crowds. They've worked out a list of things she can do for exposure therapy, some with Spencer and some alone.

Daily practice isn't so bad. She's worked her way up to a five-block walk on late weekday afternoons, when the most pedestrians and cars are around. Part of her still cringes every time she sees a woman who looks anything like Diane - or a police car, the humiliation of the subway incident is still too fresh - but she still manages. Going up to the top floor of her apartment building and looking out the main corridor's window isn't too hard, either.

( _How do you know I'll be honest about logging the daily stuff_? she'd asked Spencer, only half-joking. _I trust you_ , he'd said, and remembering that has helped keep her from chickening out on trying the solo assignments so far.)

The weekend exposures have been harder. The neighborhood park on Sunday afternoons, watching the random chaos of people from a bench or picnic table. The parking garage downtown, six open-sided floors and the elevator with thick see-through plastic sides. The best she's done there so far is take the elevator up to the second floor and step out briefly. Watching the ground receding below, and then the _wind_ blowing through...she shivers.

She doesn't know where they're going today, or what's planned, only that Spencer had said it was important they be there early _. It'd better be worth it_ , she thinks. She got almost no sleep again last night.

Hypnotized by the moving water droplets, she slips into a light doze. Eventually, distantly, she feels the car stop, and then Spencer nudging her gently.

"Hm?"

"We're here."

She sits up and stares blearily out the windshield. They're in a parking lot surrounded by trees. A few yards away, she sees the start of a trail heading into the woods. There's a bike rack and a little roofed stand holding a bulletin board nearby.

"Where's here?" she asks.

"Rock Creek Park. There's a perfect place for practice out here. That's why I wanted to get here early - thought you'd have an easier time with it with fewer people around."

She gets out of the car and waits, looking around, while Spencer locks it up. Rock Creek Park, she'd come out here before, years ago now (with - she forces the thought of Bobby out of her mind). It's foggy here too, the air smelling of wet dirt and green growing things. _An easier time with fewer people around?_ That means this probably isn't about crowd or open space exposure, it must be -

"We're not climbing trees, are we? Because I don't think I'm ready for that, and it's probably not a great idea in wet weather, either."

Spencer smiles. "No. Though that's not a bad idea for later."

"Only if you agree to climb one too."

They walk over to the trailhead. There's a map on the bulletin board, with a little red star indicating where they are within the park's massive stretch. Suspicious, she stops before it and studies what's on the trail. A winding walk of about three-quarters of a mile, approaching the river, and -

"Oh, _no_." She looks at Spencer, trying not to glare. " _Not_ that bridge."

He gets this incredibly sheepish look on his face, and nods.

"You're serious...are you trying to make me have a stroke or something? That's a suspension bridge, and it's _open_ and - "

"That's why this is perfect." He's staring down at his shoes now. "It's open, but it never gets that windy, not with all the trees around it being windbreaks."

She has to admit that makes sense, but she doesn't want to say it. "You could have at least _warned_ me."

"If I had, would you have come?"

"That's a rhetorical question, right?"

He shrugs.

She takes a deep breath and turns toward the trailhead. "Let's get this over with, then."

　

 

The trail is actually nice, or would be if she weren't so nervous. A few yards' walk and the parking lot is out of sight, misty spring woods surrounding them. She'd forgotten how many different subtle shades of green a forest has, or how tree trunks get delicately frosted with moss and lichens. There's a bird somewhere nearby, whistling one low repetitive note.

It's not long before she hears the rush of water. A couple of sharp bends in the trail, and the ground rises and then drops off, a relatively steep drop to the riverbed. The bridge is just ahead.

She stops, Spencer just behind her, and inspects it. It's narrow, just wide enough for two people to cross at once, mossy brown wood and a web of rusty cables, springing out and downward to meet the continued slope of the ground on the other bank. The river isn't too wide here. She glances down, and gets a quick glimpse of rocks and low, rushing whitewater before she looks away.

Spencer steps out onto the bridge. She's about to follow him, but he holds up a hand.

"I'm going across first. I'll wait at the other end. You should be able to see me the whole time."

"You want me to do this alone." Not really a question, but he nods anyway.

She sighs and watches him cross, noticing the bridge bouncing lightly as he does. _It moves_ , she thinks. _Oh damn._

Once he reaches the other side, he turns back toward her and leans on the railing, hands in his pockets. "Okay," he calls out. "I counted forty-two steps, but your legs are shorter than mine so I don't know if that helps - it might."

"Can I use the railing?"

"Of course."

She's already shaking a little. She closes her eyes, grabs the flaking wood railing with both hands, and steps onto the bridge.

The first few steps are relatively easy. The bridge is still close enough to where it's fixed in the bank that it doesn't move under her. She decides against counting paces - Spencer's right, the count wouldn't be the same for her - and concentrates on shuffling along. One step per breath. The rush of water below is unpleasant, too much like wind. She wishes she had earplugs.

An eternity of shuffling sideways steps, and - _there_ \- the bridge starts bobbing under her, just a little spring. Her stomach lurches. She presses against the railing and takes a few deep breaths before continuing. The structure is moving and squeaking slightly with each of her steps now. The shifting, and the _sounds_ -

She freezes. The rooftop, sounds crashing around her and the awful empty space behind her, Diane close and snarling -

She digs her fingers into the railing, wet splinters coming off on her hands. Coffee-tasting bile rises in her throat. She swallows hard, then forces herself to move another two steps. The bridge moves hideously under her, springier than ever. That means she must be at about the middle, but she doesn't dare open her eyes to check. She starts crying, silently, hot tears spilling down her cold face.

She must have been still for longer than she thought, because Spencer calls out to her. He's trying to sound calm, but she can hear the undertone of concern in his voice. "Maeve?"

Her mouth has gone so dry it's hard to respond. "I'm gonna fall."

"You can't. The railing's too high. Just...take another step. Okay? One at a time."

She feels floaty and disconnected trying to move her own body now, like a puppeteer moving a marionette. She makes the next step a big one, then clings to the railing till the bridge stops bouncing. Again. Again. Her mind is turning into a humming blank now. She feels like she's vanishing away down a long tunnel, and all she can do is think _please don't let me faint_.

The bridge is sloping downward again now, she can feel it under her. _Keep moving, keep moving, keep -_

She smacks into something warm and solid - _Spencer_ \- and then his arms are around her, holding on tightly, which is good because that's when her legs go out from under her. He lurches and almost overbalances holding her up, before righting himself. She presses her face into the folds of his coat, concentrating on making her breathing slow down.

Finally, when her breathing is almost normal and her legs feel like they'll hold her again, she opens her eyes and disentangles herself from him.

"You okay?"

"More or less." Her voice is still shaky.

There's a little winding path leading from here down to the water's edge. She picks her way down it, Spencer following. The bank here is strewn with rocks. She spots a large, relatively flat one jutting into the water, and sits down on it, leaning carefully over to rinse her dirty hands off.

The water is still cold, and running fast with the last vestiges of spring thaw. She pulls her shoes and socks off and dangles her feet in, concentrating on the sensation of the water rushing between her toes and pulling at her ankles.

Spencer sits down beside her. He's picked up a long stick on his way down, and he pokes it about halfway into the water and lets it hang loosely in his hands, watching the water's flow around it. Then he starts slowly twirling it, making a repetitive circular pattern in the current.

"You did really well," he says.

"I know." She laughs nervously.

"How scared were you?"

"Are you kidding? I was _terrified._ " She looks up at the bridge, and feels a little dizzy again realizing how high up it is. Something occurs to her. "We have to go back across to get back to the car, don't we?"

"No. If we go another mile down the main trail in that direction - " he points to their right - "there's a much lower footbridge, only a few feet high. We can walk back to the car from there." He suddenly looks worried. "If you're up to the hiking."

"I'd like it. It's been a while since I was in a forest."

Once she has her shoes back on, they head back up the bank and down the trail. Except for the sound of the river, it's very quiet. It's slow going, because the ground is uneven and hilly, but the pace just gives her more time to look around. Neither of them says anything, but it's a comfortable silence.

　

 

By the time they get back to the car, the fog is thinning. Spencer's noticeably more relaxed driving this time. She lets herself slump in the passenger seat, and eats the last bagel between yawns. The jitteriness of adrenaline and caffeine is ebbing out of her, being replaced by a warm fuzz of sleepiness.

"You're not sleeping well, are you?"

The question's so matter-of-fact. It startles her a little. "N-no. I...actually don't really sleep at all when it's dark...how'd you know?"

"Sleep disturbances are almost universal during the process of working through serious trauma. I also know from...personal experience. Besides, when we meet at my place, you end up falling asleep sixty percent of the time."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. You're coping better than I did."

"What did you do?"

A pause, then, his voice flat: "I took Dilaudid."

" _Oh_." She'd known the bare facts of this. He'd mentioned it a few times over the months of phone conversations, but he'd never gone into any detail, and it wasn't the kind of thing you pushed for details of.

"It actually really works for insomnia. Though I wouldn't recommend it, of course."

"What's it like, exactly?" The instant she asks, she realizes how invasive she's being. "You don't have to answer that."

"No, I -" He sighs. "It's like...being rolled up in a warm blanket and just...with everything taken care of, and there's the greatest sense of relaxation. Safety."

"God, how'd you ever quit?"

"Sometimes I still don't know."

She lets it go at that.

　

They go up to her apartment. Spencer keeps following her lead, only taking his shoes off and draping his coat over a kitchen chair after he sees her do the same. She looks around. Newspapers on the floor, empty coffee mugs scattered around, dirty dishes stacked on the cupboard. Maybe she should have cleaned up, knowing he was coming over, but she hadn't had the energy.

"I need a nap," she mumbles. "If I'm gonna be coherent enough for us to do anything tonight."

"Good idea." He sounds as tired as she feels.

"You can come in with me if you want."

He does an actual double-take when he hears that. It makes her blush. She amends: "Just to sleep, I mean, it's more comfortable than you trying to fit onto that couch - "

"Of course." His laugh is small and nervous.

The bed is unmade. They end up flopped diagonally across it, and she straightens the blankets out over them. There's light filtering into the room, the deep gray of very overcast sky.

They don't touch at first. Just as she thinks he's asleep already, she feels him roll over. His fingertips on her back, rubbing lightly, and then drawing away.

"Sorry," he whispers. "I should've asked."

"Go ahead."

He moves up close behind her, both hands on her shoulders and back, scritching with just the right amount of pressure. She closes her eyes and goes limp. Warmth and relaxation, and a definite growing build of arousal, yes, this is a lot different than cuddling on a couch -

She rolls over, facing him. His eyes are closed, and he's smiling.

"Mind if I kiss you?" she whispers.

He shakes his head, so she does. Then he's kissing her back, with his hand on her shoulder and then her hip. She starts opening her mouth against his, and he pulls back. "I don't like _that_ kind of kissing. Nothing personal."

"If you don't like something, tell me." She says this against his skin, at the hollow at the base of his throat. He moans a little, his hand tightening on her hip.

They go still like that, legs entangled, her head tucked under his chin. She feels his breathing relax into the slow rhythm of sleep.

 _Safety_ , she thinks, and closes her eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
